Haverford House, London, 1787
Fitz-Grenford balanced the delicate porcelain cup carefully on his knee, not taking his eyes off his hostess. Her Grace was remarkably contained, given she had just announced her intention to defy both Society and her husband. The Duke of Haverford was not a gentle man, and did not tolerate rebellion in his household. As his base-born brother, Fitz-Grenford knew this fact at first-hand.
The duchess seemed a nice enough young woman, though he’d had little to do with her until she had contacted him with her commission. “The duke will not be pleased,” he warned.
“His Grace will not wish to upset me.” The duchess smiled serenely, and placed a hand on her midriff. Fitz-Grenford nodded. The household knew that the lady had lost several babies since the son who secured the succession. Even His Grace would hesitate to counter his duchess’s express commands when she might carry the hope of the Haverfords.
“So what, precisely, do you wish me to do?” Fitz-Grenford asked.
Her Grace had her answer ready. “Talk to the boy, then trace back his steps and talk to the people he met on the way. I have made my own judgement based on my meeting with him and with his father. Your report will confirm or disprove that he is fit company for the Marquis of Aldridge. I believe him, Fitz-Grenford, but I do not trust myself in such an important matter.” She waved an impatient hand. “I should call you ‘Thomas’, should I not? No. Oliver. You use your second name, I believe. As my husband’s half-brother, you are family.”
Fitz-Grenford smiled, despite the caution he felt impelled to offer. “Unacknowledged half-brother, and the duke will bar the door to me if I presumed on the relationship in the least.”
“We cannot have that,” Her Grace agreed. “A nickname, then, and only when we are private.” She clapped her hands, looking in her enthusiasm closer to sixteen than the twenty-seven years he knew she had to her account. “I have it. T. Oliver. Tolliver. I shall call you ‘Tolly’, unless it displeases you?”
“Your Grace, enclosed please find reports of the interviews I conducted on your behalf into the journey of the boy David. He seems a nice lad. I will look forward to hearing how he goes on. Sincerely yours, Tolly.
Gerald Ficklestone-Smythe
Manager of Cowbridge Mine, Llanfair
The boy was gone when I got back from the funeral. Little bastard. I told him I’d kick him to next Tuesday if dinner wasn’t on the table, but nothing was prepared, and he was nowhere to be found. And he’d let the fire go out. He’ll come back when he’s hungry, and I’ll have the skin off his back, see if I don’t.
Where else is he going to go? London? To the duchess? He is stupid if he thinks she’s going to want her husband’s by-blow, and so I told him when I took the money for his trip. I had a right to it, didn’t I? I took his mother back after the duke had finished with her. I gave her a home. I even let her keep the boy.
The duke owed me that money. Yes, and more. Made a harlot out of my daughter, and turned her off with a measly few hundred pounds. Then wouldn’t pay more when that ran out. Then, when my daughter lay dying and couldn’t keep house for me anymore, that pernicious swine sent his wife to steal the boy I raised, promising him I don’t know what.
The boy said he’d stay till his mother died, and the duchess returned to London without him. And now my slut of a daughter is dead, and the boy can’t be found, but where could he have gone? He has no money for the coach fare, and it’s a long walk to London, especially with winter coming on, and the Black Mountains between here and England.
He’s no fool, the boy. He’ll be back.
Jeremiah Penchsnith
Captain of the Merry Molly, Bristol
We didn’t find the lad till we was near Avonmouth. ‘E was hid in the coal, but we saw ‘im when ‘e tried to escape over the side. ‘E fair wriggled when we caught ‘im, begged us to let ‘im go. But ‘e owed us ‘is passage, and so I told him.
If we let away every lad who wanted a free trip over the Bristol Channel, we might as well set up as a ferry, and that’s what I said.
Give the lad credit, ‘e worked ‘ard. Four trips ‘e did wiv us, not counting the first. And then he left us in Bristol. I’d’ve kept ‘im on, I would. Good worker, that lad. I ‘ope ‘e gets where ‘e’s going.”
Maggie Wakefield
Farmer’s wife, Ditchford Frary, East Cotswolds
He was a mystery, young David. Turned up in a snow storm, he did. Bessie the dog found him when Matthew went out after the sheep, huddled up in the midst of the flock where they’d taken shelter in the lee of the old stone wall.
Matthew brought them all home: boy and sheep, the boy limping along on a stick because his ankle was swollen to twice its size. “I’ve a lamb for you to warm by the fire, mother,” Matthew said, and then stood aside. Just a sprain, it turned out to be, but a bad one. I would not turn man or beast out in weather like that, let alone a boy, and no more would Matthew, so of course we let David stay.
Where did he come from in that awful weather? Wales, he said, but that couldn’t be, could it? Wales is a long way away, across the wolds and then the water. And mountains, too, they say.
David was a good boy, so perhaps he was telling the truth. He made himself useful until he could walk again. He was a good hand in the kitchen, and he read to me and Matthew at night, which was a great blessing, for our eyes are not what they were. Not that I’ve ever read more than enough to piece together a few verses from the Bible. Not like David. It was a treat to listen to him, and I was sorry when he left.
But he had people waiting for him, he said, so off he went, off to London. We got him a lift as far as Oxford with Jem Carter. I hope he made it to his people. A fine boy like that? They would have been missing him, I’m sure.
Sir Philip Westmacott
Gentleman, London
My tiger? He’s taken off. Ungrateful brat. Good boy with the horses, too. But there you go. That’s what I get for taking a boy off the streets. I found him in Oxford, you know. Oh yes, I told you before, didn’t I. He made sure I got back to my inn after a rather exciting evening. Didn’t rob me, either, though he could have. I was somewhat—er—elevated.
I told him to come back in the morning for his reward, and he was waiting outside in the stable yard when I woke. And all he wanted was to come to London with me. I bought him a suit of clothing, of course. Couldn’t be seen with him in the rags he had. Not livery. Not in Oxford. But I thought silver blue, to set off his dark hair. It would have looked stunning against my matched blacks.
We arrived late at night, and in the morning he was gone. Ungrateful brat.
Henry Bartlett
Gatekeeper, Haverford House, London
Of course I didn’t let him in. A boy like that? Tidily dressed enough, and nicely spoken, but what child of substance is allowed to walk around the streets? But he wasn’t a street urchin, either. He asked if he could send a note, and he wrote it right there on a piece of paper I found him. Never was a street urchin that could read and write.
Anyway, I sent it in to the duchess. Told him he’d have to wait, but it wasn’t but an hour before Her Grace’s own maid came down to fetch him, and the next thing I knew, he was part of the household.
He seems a pleasant enough lad; always polite. But it just doesn’t seem right, raising the duke’s bastard under the same roof as his legal sons. The duke agrees, or so goes the talk in the servant’s hall. But the duchess got her way, this time. And we’re all to treat the boy as if he were gentleman. Her Grace has hired him a tutor, and word is he’s off to Eton in the autumn. And the little Marquis follows him around like a puppy dog.
What will be the end of it, do you suppose?
David Wakefield, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Haverford, is hero of Revealed in Mist, and his estranged younger brother, the Marquis of Aldridge, is a secondary character. Aldridge is not quite the hero of A Baron for Becky. David and Aldridge also turn up in other stories of mine, as do Tolliver and the Duchess.
Acknowledgement: this series of interviews was written for and appeared for the first time in, The Teatime Tattler. It is published in The Collected 2016 Editions of The Teatime Tattler, which can be purchased from most eretailers.
Ella, watching Alex treating a crowd of admiring females to his best imitation of a man pleased with his lot, was surprised when Mrs Fullerton spoke at her elbow. “Silly hens. He is being polite, of course, but I dare say our new Lord Renshaw is hating every minute.”
